


Honey, there is no right way

by rillaelilz



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Self-Indulgent, anders is still a god and mitchell is still a vampire, flatmates, it's just a little messy is all, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 16:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18608227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: He thinks of the way Mitchell says his name sometimes – like it gives him joy and torment at the same time; the way he can whisper it, swallow it, wrap his tongue around it with that Irish lilt lke it was always meant to be said like this, exactly like this, everybody else just said it wrong for the past 30-odd years.And then he thinks of how much he wants all of that, every day – to be Mitchell’s joy and torment because he may have just realized, Mitchell is the same to him.He’s the root of every single one of Anders’ problems these days; and he’s the only possible solution. No, not the only possible one. But the one Anders wants, more than any other.





	Honey, there is no right way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlmarvel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarvel/gifts).



> This one is for the birb, because she's amazing and to be quite honest, I'd be lost without her <3 I LUV U BRO
> 
> Also written for the SFRE2019, prompt 167. "I'm cold." Title from Hozier's "Someone new". This might look serious, but it's not xD Just Endors and Mitcho being idiots and very, very oblivious ones. Promise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first instance comes as a surprise.

That is to say, Anders is well acquainted with all of Mitchell’s flaws. He never complained (too loudly) about the rusty stains left by stolen blood bags on his nice coffee table. He’s never said a word about Mitchell’s lack of personal hygiene or his issues with dishwashing. And Mitchell is a brooding mess and a bad flirt and he leaves clumps of his damned hair in the shower drain, but of all things, Anders never pegged him as the Captain Obvious type.

And yet here Mitchell is, plopping down on the couch next to him in the middle of a rugby math, cushions dipping ominously under his weight.

“Anders,” he says, “I’m cold.”

Anders doesn’t so much as spare him a single glance. He takes a swig off his bottle and leans back against the couch with a satisfied groan.

“You’re a walking corpse, John, you haven’t been warm _once_ these past hundred years.”

Somewhere to his left, Mitchell scoffs.

“No shit, Anders. Thank fuck I have you to remind me.”

And then he’s pushing himself up on his feet again, and the couch strings twinge after him, calling him back. Anders’ eyes follow him until Mitchell’s disappeared down the hallway, the cheers buzzing from the tv only a forgotten background noise for a few moments. He’s not sure what just happened, and he’s not sure he likes it, either.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time it happens, Mitchell is alone on the sofa and nursing a cup of coffee, legs drawn up and socked toes curling over the edge of the fluffy seat.

Anders steps around him and gets a glimpse of grocery bags sitting on the kitchen table, meat, veggies and a six-pack of Mitchell’s favourite garbage-tasting beer and all, left to their own means. Which is the sin of sins. Even Mitchell, man of unholy hands and greasy hair, cannot stand to abandon his beer away from the safety of the fridge; which is how Anders starts wondering if vampires can catch stuff, after all. Measles, the flu, spring allergies–

He loosens his tie, walks back to the living room, where Mitchell is sighing wistfully over his coffee, and on the tv screen Keira Knightley carves away at an apple in a Regency dress.

“You all right there, Mitch?”

Mitchell throws him a glance over his shoulder, giving Anders his profile.

“Just a bit cold, is all.”

His eyelashes fan so delicately over his cheek, and dammit, Anders always knew they were too long, too fucking long by half. He grabs the quilt they keep on the armchair, the one only the neighbour’s wandering cat uses, and drops it right on top of Mitchell’s head, nearly making him spill his drink when the vampire starts.

“There, never let it be said that I’m not a gentleman.”

“What the fuck, Anders–”

Ah, isn’t he cute, all pure disgruntled Irishman, his accent growing thicker the more he’s pissed off. Anders flashes him a smug grin.

“You said you were cold!”

He exits the room just in time to avoid Mitchell’s balled up sock hitting him square in the face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

December in New Zealand never warranted sweaters, blankets and hot chocolate - though Mitchell doesn’t go without his weekly mug either way; topped with whipped cream sprayed right into the cup and spiked with a little something, Anders is sure.

December in New Zealand means sun and cocktails and Anders sweating in his dress shirts and Mitchell wandering about the apartment in boxers and old t-shirts, his hair sticking to his neck and forehead, still wet from the shower.

Mid December, tough, apparently means Mitchell sitting on the floor with a fan pointed in his face, a glass of iced tea frosted over and trickling moisture on Anders’ poor coffee table.

“Why is it so fucking hot, it never used to get this hot back home,” Mitchell grumbles, his vampire fangs sticking out in dismay.

“There’s a thing called climate, dunno if you heard of it.”

“Ugh.”

Christmas in New Zealand, in the year of the Lord 2018, means everybody showing up to their unhortodox family party in flip flops and Mitchell wearing his most festive tank top for the occasion. His curls are less greasy than usual and half done up, and he went and baked the fanciest thing he knows how to bake without burning the whole building down. Which is shepherd pie. When he was supposed to make dessert.

“Well. Technically, it’s still a pie, isn’t it?” Dawn says when she sees it in the oven, patting Mitchell’s tattooed bicep.

“Dawn, he’s an idiot, stop encouraging him.”

Mitchell groans at him.

“Must you _really_ be a dick all the time–”

“I’m not being– I’m not being a dick, though I _am_ in possession of a wonderful, glorious dick, which none of the people in this room will ever–”

“We’re _not_ discussing your dick before lunch.”

“Forgive me, John, perhaps you’d rather discuss it _after_?”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They even have a tree they’ve been setting up in the living room, right next to the balcony door. It’s so small, Mitchell has to sit cross-legged on the floor to decorate it – because Anders won’t have it anywhere near his table.

“Anders, come down here and help me with the damn tinsel. It’s _your_ tree, too.”

Anders rolls his eyes and squirms out of Mitchell’s reach, so he’ll stop tugging on his nice pants’ leg.

“What, two baubles weren’t enough to fill the whole thing?” He teases, but he crouches down across from Mitchell, the tiny, pathetic excuse of a Christmas tree standing precariously between them, a star drooping from the top.

“Come on, show it a bit of sympathy,” Mitchell coos, pushing the box of glittering trinkets towards him. “The poor thing is actually shorter than you, can you imagine that?”

The poor thing is probably shorter than a Smurf, Anders would like to point out, but then he’d be the bad guy again.

“Ha, ha. That’s so funny I’m gonna puke.”

Mitchell flashes him a grin, and Anders ducks his head to peruse the shiny contents of the box. He picks up a Santa-shaped thingie and, after a moment’s deliberation, hangs it on one of the lowest branches.

“That’s it, that’s more like it,” Mitchell approves.

They drape more tinsel around the tree, and Anders ends up with his ass on the floor too, with the fairy lights’ plug digging in his hip, but it’s not too bad.

He leans back to take in the whole picture when they’ve almost run out of ornaments, and it’s amazing how the thing is even standing on its own.

“This looks like Ty in his princess dress, that one Halloween,” he blurts out, and the more he thinks about it, the more it feels right. They’ve even got the same overdressed broomstick look about them; he can just see fourteen-year-old Ty next to this, all bony arms and legs, with his collarbones sticking out of the puffy costume Anders had tricked him into wearing. If their tree had a face, it would probably be sporting the same pout, too.

“There’s a story in there and you’ll have to tell me someday,” Mitchell says, eyes glinting with mischief.

“ _He’ll do no such thing,_ “ Ty’s voice squawks from the kitchen, and the two of them bark out a laugh.

Mitchell stretches his legs then, bare feet travelling at a dangerous speed towards Anders, until icy toes are hitting his warm, exposed forearm. The impact is devastating.

“Fuck!” He squeals, swatting Mitchell’s foot away from him fruitlessly. “How the _fuck_ are your feet cold when it’s fuck you degrees outside?”

Mitchell beams at him, radiant, the hint of a dimple in his scruff and a slightly crooked front tooth, and Anders’ gay senses are tingling. Too bad.

“Walking corpse, remember? Now be a good flatmate and warm me up.”

And just like that, John fucking Mitchell shoves his arctic toes under Anders’ nearest thigh. Victoriously, unapologetically. Anders hates him so much.

“Fuck off, Mitch.”

“Make me.”

So, so much.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you actually sick?”

Anders wouldn’t have thought so, normally. But when it’s 8.35 on a Thursday morning and Mitchell isn’t stumbling down their three flights of stairs, with his bike tucked under his arm and his hideous backpack thrown over a shoulder, to reach the hospital before they decide they’ve had enough and kick him out for good, well it’s a tad bit worrying.

He stands in the doorway, letting sunlight in, and Mitchell rolls over under his blanket with a pitiful groan.

“Dunno,” he croaks, with the same charm as a frog with a bad cough. “Maybe something in the blood last night. Tasted weird anyway.”

Anders pushes himself off the doorjamb with a long-suffering sigh.

“Mitch, Mitch, will you ever fucking learn.”

He unbuttons his left cuff and rolls up the sleeve, wading carefully amongst the mess of candy wrappers and old CDs strewn all over the floor. When he reaches the bed, he sits heavily next to the vampire-shaped lump, so hard Mitchell actually bounces, blankets and all.

“Ugh, Anders–”

“Come on,” Anders coaxes, tugging the sheets down to reveal Mitchell’s ashen face. His eyes are weary and lined with dark shadows, but still they look sober, painfully awake. And murderous. Definitely murderous.

“Anders, no.”

Which Anders, you know – he never had that much patience to begin with.

“You know you need it.”

“No.”

“Don’t you fucking make me beg, John, because I _won’t_.”

“Great, so leave me alone.”

The stubborn idiot even has the nerve to pull the covers over his head again. Anders ends up half-draped over him, struggling to get the blasted sheets out of the way while Mitchell wiggles like a worm beneath him.

“You little shit, _I’m_ supposed to be the childish fucker in this house!”

“Anders, I don’t want it!”

The cat print on the sheets tears down the middle with a loud _strap!_ , and then it’s just the two of them, face to face, Mitchell’s breath heavey and rugged under Anders’ hand.

There’s something wild in Mitchell’s gaze; something desperate that Anders told himself he’d never have to see again.

“I don’t want your blood.” It should be odd, how Mitchell’s eyes have him pinned down like this. It ought to be. But it’s nothing if not familiar. “I can’t drink it.”

Anders sits back, arms crossed over a huff.

“Why not?”

Mitchell swallows, but otherwise makes no sound, no attempt to reply.

“Look, if this is about the god thing, we already know that it won’t turn your lousy brain into goop.”

“That’s not–”

“And it won’t turn you into a pile of vampire ashes, either.”

“I know, just–”

Mitchell rakes his fingers through his hair, tugging a little too hard in places. Anders pretends he doesn’t see.

“Come on,” he pokes instead, “you need it, come on.”

“Anders,” Mitchell begs him one last time, but Anders can see where the dam is cracking, where his will is wavering like a candle flame in the wind.

“Come on,” he mumbles. “Come on.”

He rubs the pad of his thumb over the inside of his wrist, where the faint mark of Mitchell’s fangs is barely visible – nothing but pale dots on already pale skin – and he offers it to Mitchell, bare and delicate and pulsing with life.

Mitchell wraps long, gentle fingers around it, seeking Anders’ eyes before bringing the wrist to his mouth. There, his eyes fall shut; he brushes his lips against Anders’ skin, kiss-soft, reverent – a thank you and an apology for the sacrifice. Then he fits his teeth to the old scar and in the next breath, they’re sinking in, pricking Anders’ flesh with a razor-sharp shock of pain.

They’ve only done this once before, but Anders could never forget what it feels like. What it is, to have Mitchell at his mercy, trembling, nuzzling his sensitive skin, clutching him close as if in fear that he’ll be taken away. What it’s like, the thrill of Mitchell’s sweet tongue on him, of Mitchell inside him.

He feels the moment his blood touches Mitchell’s mouth like a punch in his guts; it makes Mitchell whimper, the softest, wounded little sound, and suddenly Mitchell’s sucking, drinking deep, letting the heat of Anders’ blood fill his mouth until it’s nearly spilling out.

“Shh, that’s it.”

It’s a little less thought and a little more instinct that makes Anders weave his fingers through Mitchell’s hair, but even so, he doesn’t fight it. He combs dark curls away from Mitchell’s forehead, hides the slight tremor of his hand in a caress and smooths his thumb over Mitchell’s temple, holding in a breath when Mitchell tilts his head into his touch and sucks just that bit harder.

“That’s it, you fucking caveman,” Anders soothes, fingernails scritching Mitchell’s scalp. “All yours, it’s all yours.”

Mitchell moans for him then, and the rush of blood where they’re joined, the pinprick pleasure of it, sits deep in Anders’ belly.

Mitchell doesn’t drink for too long anyhow; soon he’s slowing down, red lips gentling over Anders’ tender flesh. Anders barely feels the sting when he pulls his teeth out.

When Mitchell licks at his oversensitive skin with the tip of his tongue, blood-hot and stained a ruby-red, Anders can’t help but shiver.

“You utter dumbass,” he rasps as Mitchell settles back against the pillows, Anders’ hand still cradled close to his cheek. “You’ll knock yourself out with some scumbag’s blood one of these days, and who will pick you up off the pavement then, huh?”

“Anders,” Mitchell mumbles, “please shut up.”

Anders scoffs.

“Yeah, all right.” And then, because he can’t help himself, “You gonna pass out, there?”

Mitchell nods drowsily, eyes closed in a sort of tired bliss, his face pressed against Anders’ limp hand.

“Just might,” he mutters. “Think I’ll call in sick for the day.”

“Hm.”

“You should go, though. You have work, ‘s probably late.”

“Shut up,” Anders grumbles. “I’m the boss of me, I can head in whenever the fuck I want.”

Mitchell blinks his eyes open, lazy and mischievous, like a cat.

“ _Dawn_ is the boss of you,” he slurs, blunt teeth showing in his grin. “She’ll kick your ass if you make her do all your work again.”

Anders smacks him in the shoulder with his free hand for that.

“One thing you don’t know about Dawnsie Dawn is that, for some reason I cannot comprehend, she likes you better than me. So this,” he gestures to his own arm, held hostage against Mitchell’s chest, “is actually gonna earn me lots of extra points with her, for looking after her favorite.”

“And that’s the only reason you’re helping me out.”

“Bingo. I knew you had to be at least _somewhat_ smarter than you look.”

Mitchell snorts. He lets Anders’ arm slip out of his clutch and shifts onto his side, face scrunching up around a big yawn.

“You’re awful,” he drawls out, after.

“Shut up, I’m _perfect_.”

“Hmm.”

Anders watches him smack his lips together sleepily, much like a baby – or a very toothless, very old man. He can barely stop himself from cackling – Mitchell _is_ a very old man, after all.

“Hey.” He nudges the vampire’s shoulder, much more gently than he would on any other day. “You gonna go to sleep?”

“Mmm.”

“You need anything?”

Mitchell’s bleary eyes peel open; he peers at Anders out the corner of his eye. There is hesitation somewhere in there, though Anders can’t figure out why.

“I’m, uh. I’m a bit cold.”

Ah, there it is. Anders was starting to miss it.

He doesn’t even try to mask the grin on his face; Mitchell is too out of sorts to notice, anyway.

“All right.”

He pushes himself to his feet, a little sluggish after Mitchell drank his fill from him, and leans over the vampire to pull the blankets up and tuck them securely around him.

“Look at this shit, I never do this shit for anyone,” he says, giving Mitchell’s back a few friendly pats. “You hear that, Mitch? You should feel honored.”

“Yeah. ‘feel so special.”

He’s fixing the quilt over the bump of Mitchell’s shoulder, and really, this wasn’t the plan, but. But Anders’ hand slips, and Mitchell’s hair is right there, and his cheek too, all ruggedy scruff and sleep-warm skin – because he _does_ run warm, especially now, with Anders’ blood filling him up and pinking his cheekbones – and Andes is only human, after all. That little spark of divine Bragi grants him, he saves for other people; but here, at home, with Mitchell curled up next to him and the phantom feeling of his lips on his wrist, Anders is just a weak mortal. And what do mortals seek, if not another’s warmth?

He brushes his knuckles across Mitchell’s jawline, just enough to feel the tickle of his stubble, then cards his fingers through Mitchell’s hair, slow, guarded, like a thief laying hands on his prize, heart racing for fear that he’ll be found out.

And Mitchell, Mitchell lets him. Nuzzles into his pillow, eyes closed and blissed out, and lets Anders stroke his hair for him.

“You have work,” he murmurs after a while, words blurring together, sweet and taffy-soft.

“I do,” Anders murmurs back.

There’s a dull ache in his wrist; a faint throbbing where Mitchell’s fangs sank into his skin. He wonder if the marks will stay, this time. He wouldn’t mind if they did.

“Go to sleep, Mitchell.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The surprising thing is, when they first met Mitchell, everybody seemed to think that Anders was fucking him. Up until the moment they learned that Mitchell was going to share the apartment with him; all of a sudden, the very idea had become preposterous.

“It’s just, fucking the guy you’re moving in with– or rather, moving in with the guy you’re fucking? Sounds too much like commitment. You don’t do _commitment_ ,” Ty had been so kind as to explain. Which. Fair enough.

As for the flatmate thing itself, Anders doesn’t think anyone in this nearest family really supported it back then – except maybe for Ty. Axl had scoffed, Mike had given him his best disappointed look, and Dawn had just been generally worried – if about himself or Mitchell, Anders never knew. He still doesn’t.

Anders can’t say that he blames them for that, exactly. The first six months living with Mitchell, _he_ wasn’t sure this whole thing would work. Even though Mitchell had the keys since day one, Anders kept having to invite him in the house for weeks; he only realized that it was because Mitchell didn’t feel at _home_ months later, sometime around the tenth time Mitchell waltzed in the apartment with pizza for two, a six-pack balanced under his arm and a toothy grin on his face.

Living with Mitchell entails ungodly amounts of tea – the only form of nostalgia Mitchell seems able to express – the occasional coffee ring on the kitchen table, and the highest rate of blanket kidnapping Anders has ever seen. He can’t leave a blanket on the couch, armchair, or any other surface in their shared area, unless he never wants to see it again. He hasn’t acquired any actual evidence so far, but he’s pretty sure they all disappear into Mitchell’s bedroom – lost forevermore to the cuddle monster’s greed.

Even so, Anders doesn’t mind too much. Most of the time. When they’re not arguing over the most ridiculous things and snarling at each other on a particularly bad day.

Which might just be a miracle, because even in his best moments, part of Anders thought that constantly sharing his living space with somebody else would end up grating on him.

 

But when Anders comes home at the end of the day, to find the lights on and Mitchell snuggled on the sofa, in front of the tv, digging deep in his box from the Chinese place two blocks away and waving him over with his chopsticks – “Come on, I saved the pork for you, I know it’s your favorite” – Anders _really_ doesn’t mind.

Even less when he comes home like this, reeking worse than the sticky floor of a 19th century pub and feeling like his stomach is trying to climb out of his mouth.

It’s not like it makes him feel better, seeing Mitchell dozing on the sofa, with the tv as the only light in the room; one of his arms slug over his eyes to shield them from the brightness. Anders still ends up hugging the toilet and saying hello to his dinner – maybe even his lunch, and the cold pizza he snacked on in the afternoon.

And Mitchell doesn’t get up to rub Anders’ back while he heaves, or brush his hair back when cold sweat matts it to his forehead. But when Anders finally stumbles out of the bathroom, the lamplight in the corner of the living room has been turned on, there’s a glass of water on the coffee table that wasn’t there before, and Mitchell is sitting up, eyes closed and head lolling sideways, like he just went back to sleep.

He sleeps with his mouth slightly open; Anders doesn’t know how he never noticed before. Maybe Mitchell should fall asleep next to him more often. Maybe Anders can consider that when his throat doesn’t feel like sandpaper on fire and his mouth tastes like garbage.

He forces down two tiny sips of water and then staggers his way to the couch. He pushes at Mitchell’s shoulder until Mitchell groans and lies down on his side, then climbs in himself, settling snugly in the gap between Mitchell’s back and the sofa. Mitchell lets out a sigh, or a burp, it could be both.

“Anr’s.”

“Nope.”

Some vague grumbling occurs.

“A– And’rs.” A sleepy pause. “You alright?”

“Nope.”

“Uh.”

Mitchell mutters something unintelligible and rolls onto his belly; Anders seizes his opportunity to toss a leg over the vampire, and then an arm too, letting it land heavily over Mitchell’s middle. The other man huffs, but he doesn’t push Anders away, not even when Anders dives nose-first between Mitchell’s shoulder blades and sinks his face there.

It’s so warm. It’s. A whole wall of warmth and solid muscle and what must be the Dewy Meadow fragrance advertised on their laundry detergent, and Anders likes it. He wonders if he’d like it even better, if he didn’t feel sick.

“Mitch.”

The answering groan vibrates right against Anders’ nose.

“Mitch. Take me to bed.”

Mitchell’s tongue clicks in the silence, unsure. “Shouldn’t you– buy me a drink first, or whatever.”

“Nope.” Anders smacks him hard enough that Mitchell’s arm slips over the edge of the couch, narrowly missing the little table there. “You insensitive fuck. Don’t talk to me about _booze_.”

“Like, now or ever again?”

“Now. Ever again.” Anders swallows, and it’s bitter and dry and he’s not getting up from here to throw up again, no fuck you.

“Okay.”

Mitchell takes a deep breath; half-splayed on top of him, Anders rises and falls with it, feels the air fill Mitchell’s lungs right beneath him, a soft rushing sound in his ear like an ancient lullaby. It’s soothing – he might just fall asleep right here and let his future self regret it in the morning.

Except Mitchell is shifting, jostling Anders off of him as he leans on his elbow to push himself up, dark hair falling over his eyes.

“Guess I’ll let you have the couch,” he says softly, his words a little slurred and fuzzy around the edges.

Something clicks inside Anders’ mind just then; something stupid and whiny and possessive. He grabs a fistful of Mitchell’s shirt and drags him back down, resting his head right back where it was, pillowed on the dip of Mitchell’s spine.

“Stay,” Anders says, or begs, or demands, he’s not sure. His hand squeezes the pliant flesh of Mitchell’s flank, and Mitchell settles underneath him with a long, slow sigh.

“A’right. Night, Anders.”

“Nh.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mitchell has his secrets; but then, anyone who’s spent longer than 30 seconds in his presence could tell. Anders doesn’t even think the Brooding Look is something Mitchell mastered with time – he was probably born with it, and then his double life as a bloodsucker gave it that little dash of _something else_.

Anders sees people try and solve the mystery behind Mitchell’s haunted eyes all the time, girls, guys, all of them drawn to him like moths to the flame, all of them bound to fail. Anders can’t blame them; he does it, too.

But since he already knows about Mitchell’s big meanie secret, _the_ secret, it’s the small one’s he’s after, these days. The details Mitchell keeps tucked away with more care than he does his fangs. The ones he only lets go of unthinkingly, in passing, when he’s had one too many drinks and the locks on his heart loosen up. Like that one time he mentioned Bristol, or the night the name _Annie_ slipped out of his mouth, soft and easy, his eyes warm like amber.

Those flashes of Mitchell’s past that only resurface by accident; a faded picture, dog tags shoved hastily to the bottom of a drawer when Anders walks in the room; the glint of the Star of David he wears around his neck, peeking through the gaps of his black button down.

Anders asked about it once, when Mitchell had drunk himself stupid and sat giggling at their kitchen table.

“Isn’t it supposed to hurt you? You know, like a crucifix or something.”

Mitchell had fiddled with the necklace, rubbing his thumb over the star with sheer tenderness.

“It’s because of love. Love changes things,” he’d said softly. “While George loves me, this won’t hurt.”

Anders had filed that away, the name and the smile on Mitchell’s lips as he said it, with a feeling like a thorn in his lungs.

“George– this George loves you?” Mitchell had nodded. “And you love him?”

“Yes,” Mitchell had said, easy as anything. But then he’d ducked his head, held his necklace in the palm of his hand, and his smile and crumpled down to nothing. “Once I thought, maybe– maybe if we’d been in love, things would have been easier. Or worse. I didn’t want _worse_ for us.”

The memory comes back to Anders sometimes, when Mitchell wanders the apartment shirtless after a shower, and the Star winks at him from the groove of Mitchell’s breastbone.

There’s a man out there, on the other side of the world, a man who loves Mitchell. A man whose love lives around Mitchell’s neck and nestles on his heart at night. The knowledge sits heavy and askew in Anders’ stomach, and he thinks–

Maybe this George is the reason Mitchell hasn’t brought anyone back to the apartment since he moved in. Maybe he’s the reason Mitchell only ever seems to go drinking with Anders, no matter how many propositions and phone numbers he’s slipped. He sits with Anders, booth or stool it doesn’t matter, and eats peanuts by the handful, laughing when Anders calls him an animal and swears to kick him out of the house if Mitchell comes anywhere near him with those greasy, salty, filthy fingers of his.

Tonight is no different.

“Come on, quit being all grumpy,” Mitchell nudges him, bringing his second beer to his mouth for a nice, long gulp.

“I’m not _grumpy_ , John,” Anders grumbles back at him, “you’re the grumpy one. Don’t confuse me with your stinky caveman self.”

Mitchell shoves him playfully, big peanut-flavored hand pushing at Anders’ shoulder while he’s still got his face down his pint.

“You know what we should do?” He says when he emerges from the depths of his beer.

Anders huffs. “What.”

Mitchell bounces a little on his stool; it’s that thing he does when he’s excited, that enthusiastic puppy response to “wanna go walkies?”, all bubbly smile and big round eyes, upper body leaning towards Anders.

“We should go to the beach,” he says, not like it’s a grand revelation, but rather in the way of _small secrets_. Something to share between the two of them. Anders hates him so much sometimes.

“The beach?” Anders echoes him with a bit of a frown on his face. “What, like now?”

“Not _now_ , obviously, but soon – as soon as I have a day off,” Mitchell tells him, wrapping his palms around his near-empty mug in a familiar gesture Anders has seen often at home – only, with the warm comfort of a teacup instead.

“God, it’s been so long,” Mitchell sighs. “I haven’t seen the ocean up close since I left Britain. What’s it like, over here?”

“Hang on a minute. You mean you’ve been in New Zealand for _two years_ and you haven’t been to a beach yet?”

“Yup.”

“What the fuck. _What the fuck._ No, I’m fixing this.” He slaps his hand on the counter, dodging a morose look from the bartender, and swings on his stool to face Mitchell. “Hold onto your stinky socks, Mitch. I’m taking you to the beach. _This week._ “

Mitchell gapes at him, brown eyes sparkling in the pub’s soft glow.

“Wait– seriously?”

“Next Sunday.”

Mitchell startles himself with a laugh. “Are you serious? Are you just messing with me right now?”

Anders holds his gaze, rising to the challenge.

“ _Next Sunday_ ,” he says.

Mitchell watches him for a moment, one eyebrow arched. His hair curls softly against his neck, his throat is exposed, his lips wet from his drink – and Anders wonders– wonders if they look this red, this slick and full when Mitchell has just been kissing someone, if–

“Sunday?” Mitchell grins, light and teasing. “Is it a date?”

“You bet it fucking is.”

Mitchell laughs and bumps his shoulder into Anders’, swaying a bit with his mug cradled in his hands.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.”

When they walk out of the pub, it’s a little after midnight and it’s cool enough to keep their jackets on. The night air tingles on Anders’ cheeks, fresh and pleasant, and as he falls into step with Mitchell on the sidewalk, their hands brush together, skin to skin. It’s small, and all too vast – the shiver of electricity between them when they touch. Mitchell’s whole body jerks minutely next to him, as if touched by the winter chill, and the sight makes Anders weak, weak, so fucking weak.

He presses himself into Mitchell’s side with a playful bump, casts him a sidelong glance as they pass a lamp post.

“You cold, Mitch?” He teases, and nearly trips over his own feet when Mitchell huffs out and amused “Yeah” and wraps one of his long arms around Anders, leaning some of his weight onto him.

Anders’ shoulder fits so nicely in the nook of Mitchell’s armpit, not an inch too high or too low; and if he shifts, he can feel the smooth leather of Mitchell’s jacket against the nape of his neck, cool and soft with use.

“Does it ever snow here?” Mitchell asks out of nowhere, three blocks away from their apartment. His hair billows in the faint breeze, and the smell of him curls around Anders, cigarette smoke and lavender. “Of all the things I thought I’d miss, this wasn’t one.”

“I’ve got the answer for you,” Anders announces, sticking his hands down his pockets. “Ask Ty the Miracle Guy. He’ll do it for you. Make it snow in our living room with a snappy snap of his fingers.”

Mitchell scoffs, right in his ear.

“I can’t do _that_ ,” he retorts, mouth twisted like he just tasted something especially disgusting. “They’re his powers, not some party trick.”

“You always call _my_ powers a party trick.”

Mitchell’s arm comes a little tighter around Anders’ neck, locking him in a chokehold for a moment, but his grimace is already fading into a grin.

“It would be rude, is all I’m saying. I can’t ask Ty something like that.”

“Please, his gay ass is half in love with you already. He’d make you a snowstorm in a jar if you asked him,” Anders sneers, wriggling in Mitchell’s grasp when ice-cold fingertips abruptly find their way down the back of his shirt.

“ _Anders._ “

“What? I’d worry for Dawn, if I didn’t know that _she_ ‘s half in love with you, too. See, I always knew they were meant for each other. Same bad taste.”

“You’re horrible.”

“I’m _gorgeous_ , thank you very much.”

Mitchell laughs, though it’s not the loud, deep-bellied laughter he gives himself over to when they’re home, and he’s got Laurel and Hardy stumbling on their tv screen and just sits there, stretched out on the sofa in unwashed jeans and an old shirt, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes.

No, this is a quiet, rumbly sound – hushed like every sound is hushed at night, in a near-empty street, under a starlit canopy. It’s just between the two of them. It’s private, only for Anders to hear. And Anders listens – closes his eyes and lets the laughter snake under his skin, feels the gentle ripples of it where his and Mitchell’s sides are pressed tightly together.

“Stop it or I’ll ask Ty to make snow in that fancy fishbowl of yours.”

“You would _not_.”

“Try me.”

It’s still two blocks before they get home; but the night is clear, and Mitchell’s arm is snug around Anders, and their shadows stretch gray and lanky in the streetlights, four long legs and a lump with two heads.

“You really are a monster, John.”

Mitchell grins, bright and, honestly, beautiful. “You bring out the best in me.”

Next Christmas, Anders tells himself. Next Christmas he’ll ask Ty, or bribe him, or blackmail him, and Mitchell will have snowflakes to go with his Christmas tree.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There _are_ bad days. Usually, they’ll fit into one of two categories.

Type One bad days are the ones Mitchell spends holed up in his room. He only comes out when it’s already dark outside, as white-faced and haunted as a ghost, collects his bowl of cereal and a spoon and slinks away again, without a single word or glance in Anders’ direction.

Anders doesn’t like those days. The apartment is too quiet.

Those are the days when he surprises himself and actually misses the mess – the late ‘30s gag reels, their grainy, stuttery quality and the way they make Mitchell laugh like nothing else. He misses the smell of buttered popcorn and the snack crumbs littering the couch and the everlasting layer of grease on the remote, and Mitchell’s knee nudging his own when they reach the “best part” – which is all the time, because to Mitchell, all of it is the best part.

It just feels empty, without Mitchell filling up the space next to him; without his hairy arm thrown carelessly around Anders’ shoulders.

He ends up leaning on the balcony railing outside, glass half full and slippery in his hand, ice melting in his drink.

Type Two bad days are the polar opposite, and even less pleasant. There’s never a definite reason, or one that Anders can remember afterwards, but Mitchell comes home already riled up and then _he’s_ riled up and at the tiniest spark, the bomb goes off.

It’s never physical, it’s never been – they each keep to their corner of the ring, bodies wound up tight, hands curled into fists, but the match is only fought in volume. Violence only in words, but Anders recognizes the cruelty for what it is, when he finds Mitchell’s weakness and strikes right there, hard, vicious, and Mitchell recoils – flinches away from him, the storm in his eyes abating, more hurt than rage now.

Because Mike might be the hunter, but Anders was always the best at aiming straight for the heart.

It always takes a while, after, before they trust each other enough again. But they do. And if there’s one thing Anders likes about this, it’s how they inevitably drift back towards each other, flotsam and jetsam after the shipwreck, and then Anders is handing Mitchell a beer, and Mitchell lets him prop his feet up in Mitchell’s lap, and everything feels right again.

There _is_ an in-between, though; a medium size on a scale of Type One to Type Two bad day, and it’s called Anders Fucked Up.

It’s on one such night that Anders turns the key in the lock, shuts the front door behind him and makes a beeline for the fridge without so much as acknowledging the vampire lump slouched on the couch.

He forgot, however, that the vampire lump might still acknowledge _him_.

“What the fuck happened to your face?”

Truth be told, Anders hasn’t looked in a mirror yet. But if the way Mitchell’s sitting up in alarm and craning his neck over the headrest to see him is anything to go by, the throbbing under Anders’ left eye must look at least as angry on the outside as it feels on the inside.

“Well hello to you, too, John,” he gripes, snatching a beer and shutting the fridge close again. “Is that any way to greet your flatmate? Such poor manners on you.”

Mitchell scoffs and climbs off the sofa with a little groan from the springs. His bare feet thump gracelessly on the floor as he comes marching into the kitchen, and Anders chooses to ignore him in favour of a swig from his bottle.

“Anders.”

“Fuck off.”

“Get your bloody ass here right the _fuck_ now.”

“Or else?”

Of course, Mitchell is on him in two seconds flat. He pries the beer from Anders’ hand and puts it on the counter, and then he reaches for Anders himself, a worried scowl on his face.

“Fine, all right, behold the work of art. Hey, _hey_ – no touching, that _hurts_ –”

He twists in Mitchell’s hold; Mitchell lets his hands drop to his sides, but he doesn’t step back.

“For God’s sake, just let me take a look so I can fix this,” he snaps, glaring at the bruise spreading on Anders’ cheekbone like it offended him personally. Anders all but laughs in his face.

“You wanna fix me?” He sneers. “Good luck with that. I’ve been told it’s too late.”

Mitchell breathes out through his nose, loud and exasperated, hands flying in a half-aborted gesture.

“Can you be serious for a damned minute?”

“I _am_ being serious.”

That earns him a long, hard look; one that Anders holds, challenging Mitchell to say something.

“Right,” Mitchell says dryly; his eyebrows set low in that grave expression of his. “Mind if we postpone self-loathing hour, then? So I can try and patch you up in the meantime.”

Anders lets out a sigh, dragging his fingers through his short hair, looking away. Mitchell must take it for the surrender it is, because he sets in motion; keeps the freezer door open while he gathers ice cubes in his hands, placing them carefully in a cloth that he then twists tightly. He comes back when he’s all done; crowds Anders between himself and the counter, then gently, ever so gently presses the makeshift ice pack to Anders’ swollen cheekbone.

Anders hisses at that first, cold touch, but he doesn’t squirm away. Soon the discomfort starts to fade, and the throbbing ache turns dull, soothed. He licks his dry lips.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says, softly.

“I know I don’t have to,” Mitchell murmurs back.

His free hand cradles Anders’ jaw on his good side, keeping him in place, and his eyes roam Anders’ face, restless, dark like the sky before a storm. Anders has never really been able to look Mitchell in the eye. Not like this, when they’re not in the middle of a screaming match, and anger clouds up everything else. But this. When it’s just the two of them, and the seconds tick by, and there are no words to shield A, he feels himself cowering. There’s too much in Mitchell’s gaze, too much that he leaves out there in the open, raw and honest, like he knows no in between – it’s nothing, or everything.

Part of Anders wants to bold. But another, smaller, subtle part wants to stay right here, under Mitchell’s touch, warmed by the soft gusts of Mitchell’s breath, and take a bit of that _everything_ for himself.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Anders huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Are you going to drop it any time soon?”

Silence stretches between them, but Anders knows this isn’t over. He can see the wheels turn in Mitchell’s brain, whirring and whirring over god knows what troubling thought.

“Was it Axl again?”

Although Mitchell speaks quietly, the words hit Anders like a kick in the guts.

“No,” he replies after a moment, and if he winces, it’s only because of the bruise pulling at his skin. “No, it wasn’t Axl.”

“Then who?”

Anders pulls back with a frustrated sigh. Half his face feels numb from the ice, and the other half misses Mitchell’s palm cupping it, and he’s tired and pathetic and tonight there’s just no fucking end in sight, is there.

“Look, it’s nothing big or tragic, all right? I just– tried to hook up with the wrong girl.”

Mitchell’s eyebrow arches up. “She did this?”

“Her brickhouse of a boyfriend did,” Anders grumbles. “Didn’t really see him coming.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him with one of your Bragi tricks?”

“I told you, he was too quick. Was there before I could so much as blink.”

Mitchell’s frown softens somewhat. He exhales, slowly, and brings the ice back to Anders’ cheekbone, two fingers perched under Anders’ chin to tilt his head the way he needs it.

“One of these days, Anders, I swear...” He trails off, shaking his head.

He looks so focused, so _Mitchell_ in his fussing, with his distressed little pout and his long back curved to hover close, it pulls a smile out of Anders despite everything.

“What’s this, Mitch?” He teases, just a tiny bit. “Are you worried about me?”

Mitchell’s answer is all of a rumble, small and sweet and on this side of dangerous.

“So what if I were?”

He leaves it there, thrust defiantly between them, and his eyes meet Anders’ and Anders wasn’t here for _emotions_ , but.

But the weight of Mitchell’s gaze makes him quiver in his own skin, it’s so intense. There’s a whole world behind John Mitchell’s eyes, and the vastness of it would make the Infinite cry, and the stars weep out of sheer envy.

“Anders...”

Gently, Mitchell sets the ice pack aside. His hand, cold from holding it for so long, finds Anders’ cheek again. His knuckles ghost over the purpling bruise there, not quite touching, not yet.

“The skin broke a little, over here,” he murmurs, and it’s his voice, not his frosty touch, that makes Anders shiver and gasp under his breath. “Ah, sorry, sorry, is it–”

Anders grasps the retreating hand before it can go much further.

“No, it’s fine,” he blurts out, clammy fingers wrapped around Mitchell’s wrist. “It’s.” His tongue darts between his lips, wetting them, nervous. “Don’t. Don’t move. Yeah? Stay– stay where you are.”

There’s this thing that Mitchell’s face does. It’s not a smile, Anders wouldn’t say– it’s just a little sunbeam on his lips. Just a flicker of light behind his eyes.

His fingertips trace Anders’ jaw, a mere brush of skin on skin, and the the brushing blooms into touch, full and soothing, and Mitchell’s palm cradles his face, so carefully Anders can hardly feel the pain at all. And the thing is, Anders doesn’t really know tenderness – he was never trained to recognize it before this man came along. But this; this sweetness gathered between them, in the hair’s breadth between Anders’ skin and the grooves of Mitchell’s palm; you don’t mistake this for anything else.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mitchell promises, and Anders closes his eyes against it, shivering.

Mitchell’s hand is cold, and it stings a little where his skin is swelling, but he clutches it tight and doesn’t let go.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Some days Anders’ life makes sense. Some other days he has Mitchell and Ty in the next room, discussing the pros and cons of whipped cream versus buttercream and there’s nothing he can do about it. Except maybe seek shelter in the kitchen with the only other reasonable person in the house.

Dawn takes one glimpse at him and grins, careful with the strawberries she’s been chopping on the cutting board.

“I know, they’re idiots, but I love them so much,” she says. All right– perhaps she got a little less reasonable lately.

“I’m just glad I only have to put up with _one_ of them 24/7,” Anders shoots back, trying to steal a piece of fruit and getting a threat at knife’s point for his troubles. “Imagine if they lived together. Under the same roof. With you. Every day.”

“Oh god,” Dawn snorts. “Maybe not. One of them at a time is enough.”

Anders leans back against the counter, steering clear of her while she stirs strawberries and mint leaves in a bright pink concoction. Anders’ not sure what exactly is in there; all he knows is that Ty came up with the recipe, and Mitchell would probably sell his soul a second time for that shit.

“You know, I never thought it would last,” Dawn says after a while, almost absently, like maybe she didn’t mean to say it at all.

“What, your thing with Ty?”

She levels him with the most unimpressed look. There, Anders always knew she was his favorite.

“ _No_ ,” she deadpans. “Your thing with Mitchell.”

“I don’t have a thing with Mitchell.”

“Fine,” she concedes, looking at him out the corner of her eye. “Your cohabitation, then. I wasn’t sure it would work.”

“What, you didn’t trust my abilities as a flatmate?”

There’s a smile now, teasing Dawn’s pink lips.

“I really didn’t, no,” she admits.

“Well, joke’s on you for not believing in my superior qualities, as some vulgar commoners do.”

“It wasn’t just you I didn’t trust, though.” She wipes her hands on her apron, then tucks a lock of blond hair behind her ear, turning to the side to face Anders fully.

“I wasn’t so sure about Mitchell, either. I barely knew him,” she says, and it’s true– she didn’t know Mitchell back then. _Anders_ didn’t know Mitchell back then, and yet he went and took a leap in the dark for a stranger with tortured eyes. He never could explain it, either.

If anyone outside of his family asked, he’d only done it out of the goodness of his heart. To the family itself, Mitchell had been his own social experiment. To Dawn, he’d said _He’s hot, are you going to sue me?_ , and she hadn’t believed him, but she hadn’t called him out on it, either.

The truth of it, though, Anders’ own big secret, is that Mitchell was being hunted, and Anders knows a thing or two about what that feels like.

“I guess I was wrong,” Dawn is saying now, “About you both. Still.” Abruptly, she leans in and looks Anders straight in the eye, almost startling him. “I know you like the back of my hand, Anders. And I’ve grown pretty fond of the boy, so I wouldn’t want him to get hurt because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

Anders can only scoff at her.

“There’s no way _I_ can hurt _Mitchell_ ,” he retorts, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “And why is it that I never hear you worry about _me_ for a change? The guy’s a fucking vampire. He could murder me in my sleep!”

“Yes,” Dawn agrees, all too easily for his liking. “And when I brought that up with you two ears ago, you told me to mind my own business, because you knew best. _And_ ,” she adds when she sees him open his mouth to speak, “I’m pretty sure that if I tried to meddle again now, you would tell me the exact same thing.”

She’s right, of course she’s right. And Anders hates her for it for just the tiniest minute.

There’s something in the way she’s looking at him – like he’s a particularly dense pupil she’s explained the same rule to over and over again, and still he doesn’t get it. It makes the back of his neck itch.

“Dawn,” he begins, shifting nervously on his feet. “Dawn, where is this going again?”

She haves a sigh.

“I just. I care about him. And I think you care about him, too, maybe more than you realize. So if, if you’re scared by that or–”

“It’s not like that between us,” he snaps, the words out of his mouth before he can think to rein them in. “It’s not. It’s not like that.”

Dawn watches him for a long moment; then she nods, slowly stepping away.

“Okay. Okay. I’m just, I’m going to...”

She takes her pink-filled jug and, discreetly, makes her exit; Anders hardly even notices.

He keeps thinking about what she said, and just how wrong she is. Dawn is a romantic at heart, just like his brother, bless their souls; it’s only natural that she would want to see something that just isn’t there. Because there isn’t.

Just because Mitchell has his arm around Anders more often than not–

Just because they go for drinks together, and come home together, and drink the same bad coffee and feed the same fish in the same fucking bowl–

Just because he can’t take the feeling of Mitchell’s mouth on him out of his mind, doesn’t mean–

It doesn’t mean shit.

That’s why Anders goes out alone that night. That’s why he hops on a cab with Dave, or Gabe, or Abe, or whatever the hell his name is, and lets him fuck him senseless without so much as a second glance. To prove it.

When broad hands clasp his waist and skim over his stomach, he doesn’t think of Mitchell’s ringed fingers brushing gently over his bruised skin.

When he throws his head back and cries out his pleasure to a damp-stained ceiling, he doesn’t think of Mitchell’s eyes falling shut in bliss, his mouth sucking, lapping, kissing over Anders’ skin, moaning at the taste of him.

And when he drags himself home, long before dawn, and finds Mitchell asleep on the couch and dinner for two gone cold on the table, he doesn’t regret it.

He does it again, and again, twice more before the week is over, until he can forget the sick feeling in his stomach, or pretend it isn’t there.

And because it’s not enough to prove it to himself, he thinks he’ll prove it to everybody else, too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s not a helpless idiot, he knows exactly what he looks like. He knows the precise degree of messy of his hair; he’s seen the lopsided angle of his loose collar in the mirror and didn’t fix it. He’s counted the pink marks on his throat and didn’t bother hiding them. And why would he? It’s not like he has somebody waiting for him at home. Nobody except for Mitchell, and Mitchell doesn’t care what he does or doesn’t do on his nights out. It’s just as it should be.

Yet when Anders unlocks the front door and shucks his smart shoes off to make as little ruckus as he can, and goes so far as to leave the lights off on his way to the kitchen, he still finds himself at fault somehow.

Mitchell’s door creaks open, the faint light of a bedside lamp seeping through the slit, and Mitchells gray face peeks out.

“You’re back.”

In anybody else’s mouth it might sound conversational, but Mitchell’s voice is all roughened edges, the pitch turned low against the quiet of the night. It makes the lovebites and teethscrapes along Anders’ throat sting.

“Hey, Mitch,” he slurs. He lets his shoulder slump, his head tilt to the side, where Mitchell will catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Hands half-tucked in his pockets, he plays the drunk and plays it well – it’s one of his many qualities Mike never appreciated. “How come you still up?”

He doesn’t miss it, the two-second sweep Mitchell’s eyes take over his body. The twitch of Mitchell’s lips when his gaze falls on the unbuttoned jacket, the rumpled shirt, the empty spot where Anders’ tie was only a few hours ago. The raw, exposed skin where another man put his mouth tonight.

Mitchell’s eyes darken at the sight, and Anders can’t help but wonder, what would he do if he saw the scratches on Anders’ back? Would he bare his teeth and growl and slash a nameless man’s throat? Or would he rather capture Anders in his arms, press their bodies together – fit his own fingernails to the red marks and drag them down, knowing it would burn, watching goosebumps spread across Anders’ skin, waiting for the tell-tale hiss of breath from Anders’ mouth, begging him, “Please”–

“I. It was cold,” Mitchell mutters. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His brown eyes so intense, Anders can barely hold them. “Goodnight, Anders.”

He steps back, shoulders swaying like a dancer’s, and before Anders knows it, the door is clicking shut in his face.

He waits a beat, and another, and another. He went wrong again. Dawn was right. God, Dawn was right, and he was wrong, he went wrong, he went wrong again. _Of course_ , of course of course of course–

 

 

* * *

 

 

He spends the night on the couch, sitting up, eyes wide open and glued to the ceiling. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, does nothing at all. When the first light of dawn creeps in from the window, Anders peels himself off the upholstery and spends the next hour in the shower, letting the hot water scorch his skin.

Mitchell’s room smells a little musty when Anders slips through the door – uninvited and quiet, just like a thief – and there’s a half eaten sandwich on a plate on the nightstand, his Star forgotten in a tiny pool of silver on the side.

Mitchell is sitting up on his bed, legs throw over the edge, the sheets gathered like seafoam around him, as if he was just about to get up but didn’t quite manage, somehow. The door creaks behind Anders, and Mitchell turns his head at the sound: his face is partly hidden behind a curtain of dark curls, but Anders can see the signs of a sleepless night there just the same.

Anders sits next him, watches the light fall in regular shafts through the blinds, slanting golden stripes on their bare feet.

“What are you doing here, Anders.”

Mitchell’s voice sounds like a block of wood dragged on a cheese grater; Anders assumes his own won’t sound any prettier, anyway.

He takes in a breath.

“You know, I was thinking. I think I went looking for something last night.” Mitchell’s left eyebrow quirks up an inch. “The past _few nights_. The point is, I didn’t find it.”

“Really.”

Mitchell isn’t even looking at him anymore. His gaze is fixed on the floor; his hands loose over his thighs, where his shorts ride up to show the dark body hair dusting them. Anders’ fingers twitch in his lap, aching, itching, wanting.

“Then it occurred to me,” he adds, a little raspy, a little unsteady, “maybe I’d left it at home. Maybe I’d had it right here under my nose and didn’t see it.”

The corner of Mitchell’s mouth tips up, imperceptible.

“You do have a big nose.”

“Fuck _off_ , you’re always telling me to be serious, and the one time I’m actually _trying_ –”

“Anders.” Mitchell’s eyes find him, pin him down. And there are many ways to be naked with someone, but Anders never expected this– this– “Why are you here?”

He swallows hard. “You know why.”

“I really don’t,” Mitchell croaks out, and the low, cracked sound of it sends a shiver down Anders’ spine.

“You _know_ ,” he says again, louder, tiptoeing the line between confident and desperate. “You know what I’m trying to say.”

“And would it kill you to actually say it?”

Ah, Mitchell’s playing dirty, isn’t he.

Then again, when Anders thinks about it, Mitchell’s been playing dirty all along. He thinks of Mitchell’s hands on his face, of Mitchell tugging him in close on their way home from a pub, of Mitchell’s sad, drunk face as he gave pieces of his heart away, and his serious one when he let Anders cling to him and said with unmovable certainty, “I’m not going anywhere”.

He thinks of the way Mitchell says his name sometimes – like it gives him joy and torment at the same time; the way he can whisper it, swallow it, wrap his tongue around it with that Irish lilt lke it was always meant to be said like this, exactly like this, everybody else just said it wrong for the past 30-odd years.

And then he thinks of how much he wants all of that, every day – to be Mitchell’s joy and torment because he may have just realized, Mitchell is the same to him.

He’s the root of every single one of Anders’ problems these days; and he’s the only possible solution. No, not the only possible one. But the one Anders wants, more than any other.

“The thing is.” Oh, his palms itch. “I’m cold.”

Mitchell turns those big brown eyes on him, and they’re glinting with a new, tiny glimmer of hope.

“Yeah?” He says, mouth curling hesitantly upwards, and god. God but Anders really _had_ missed the memo, there. He should have read it in Mitchell’s sad puppy looks, what he meant every time he mumbled those same words.

It seems so easy, now that he does. Now that he sees.

“Yeah,” Anders says, shuffling over the blankets until his knee is nudging Mitchell’s own, their equally cold toes stepping into each other. “So maybe you should warm me up.”

It makes Mitchell grin, small and stupid and just how Anders likes it, and when Mitchell presses their shoulders together and turns into him, forehead brushing against Anders’ temple, Anders leans into it.

“How thorough should I be?” Murmurs Mitchell, breath tickling the shell of Anders’ ear, and Anders can hear the smile in there. He tilts all of his body into Mitchell’s, bumping their noses together, and curls his fingers in the front of Mitchell’s green tank top.

“You can start with your tongue in my mouth, and then we’ll take it from there.”

He doesn’t get to see what Mitchell looks like when he’s about to kiss him. He only feels: the first touch of Mitchell’s lips on his, the overwhelming warmth of his palms as he cups Anders’ face in both hands and works their mouths together, once, and again, and again, and again, soft like Anders hadn’t imagined he would be.

And it’s surprising, how it lights him up from the inside; how the gentle brush of Mitchell’s mouth on his makes something – something hot, and slow, and thick as molasses sink right into his belly.

He thought he’d kiss himself a vampire, all hunger and grabbing paws; but Mitchell doesn’t growl, doesn’t rush to claim him as his own, and it makes Anders’ spine tingle and his chest bubble with laughter. Because Mitchell is kissing him like an elderly gentleman would, the same sweet, fragile quality to it, like this moment between them is something he shouldn’t break, and it’s the most precious thing Anders has ever, ever had.

And then Mitchell is grumbling, pulling away though his hands still cradle Anders’ face, and Anders only laughs harder.

“Anders, I swear–”

“No, you come back here.”

He pulls Mitchell back to him and kisses him himself this time, climbing in Mitchell’s lap because he’s there and the bed is there and who’s gonna stop him anyway?

He dips his tongue in Mitchell’s mouth and Mitchell opens up so beautifully against him, slow-dancing their tongues together, licking soft and heated at the roof of Anders’ mouth. He cups the back of Anders’ neck in one hand, glides the other down to the small of Anders’ back, and Anders’ toes curl out of their own volition.

“Fuck–”

He pushes Mitchell back on the bed and follows, Mitchell’s hips trapped between his thighs, hot coals burning underneath his skin everywhere Mitchell touches him. Anders ruts against him, half-hard and desperate for more, and Mitchell’s hands fly to his waist, clutching, guiding him, rocking them in a tight, fevered rhythm– and maybe he hungers after all, maybe he–

“Tell me you want me, Mitch,” Anders rasps out, fingernails scraping over Mitchell’s scalp, his neck, his shoulder, the slight curve of his side. “Do you– do you want me–”

“God, Anders– God, _yes_ ,” Mitchell groans, blunt teeth capturing Anders’ lower lip – and in a rush of euphoria, Anders wonder how it can be, how Mitchell can cry out God’s name and not burn for it– But then, a god’s blood doesn’t hurt him. So why would a name? Why would it do him any harm

“Anders–”

when it sounds so sweet on his lips

“Anders, god, please–”

and cuts so tender into Anders’ chest?

“Mitchell. Mitch–”

With a moan from Mitchell and one from the mattress, Anders rolls onto his back and drags the other man on top of him, swearing under his breath when Mitchell hitches one of his legs around his waist and grinds into the open cradle between Anders’ thighs, the long line of his cock dragging deliciously against Anders’ own, sending sparks up his spine.

“Want you. Want you so bad, so fucking bad,” Mitchell whimpers against Anders’ parted lips, and oh but Anders will want a mirror later, to see how well they fit together – mouth on mouth, hips to hips, chest to chest, all slotting perfectly into place.

“Show me,” he begs, he who never begged, breathless, lips kissed red like strawberries, “Show me, show me, Mitchell–”

And Mitchell does. Shimmies down Anders’ body to hook nimble fingers into Anders’ pants and slip them down, and sinks with his head between Anders’ thighs. He swallows Anders’ cock just like that, wet and hot like sin and good– better– _right_. He sucks him the way he sucked from Anders’ wrist, with that same thirst, that same need, moaning his pleasure around Anders, and Anders’ mouth falls open, eyes screwed shut to sing out in his slack-jawed ecstasy.

Later, when Mitchell slicks himself up with glistening fingers, and tosses his head back in a dark halo of curls as he rides Anders’ cock, Anders will try to remember why it took them so long to get here, and he’ll come up with no reason – no reason at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, fuck.”

In faith, Anders is sure he’ll never get tired of this. Of Mitchell shuffling akwardly about with his shoes in his hands and his toes curling in the soft sand, dipping deeper and deeper, because he loves the feeling even though he’s never ready to face the consequences.

“What, what’s the matter now?”

“I got bloody sand in my bloody socks, and _I can’t get it out._ “

“You wanted the beach, you got the beach. Aren’t you happy now?”

Mitchell glares at him, a little less murder and a little more just annoyance, but it doesn’t last either way. Not when he’s emptying the contents of his unlucky sock right down the collar of Anders’ shirt.

“You son of a bitch, I’m gonna fucking teach you–”

Mitchell grabs him by the waist and reels him in, kissing Anders’ running mouth with a big loud smacking sound.

“Leave my poor mother out of this,” Mitchell grins down at him, and then, because of course he’s sappy like that and _of course_ Anders knew all along what he was getting himself into: “I am, you know. Happy.”

And Anders doesn’t have to think about it to know that he is, too.

“Aw, shut your trap already.”

He pushes at Mitchell’s chest and Mitchell only draws him back in, pressing Anders close to his side, and Anders lets him.

The water is too cold to go swimming, but the ocean glitters like a thousand splintered suns before them, and the smile on Mitchell’s face is worth a whole summer.

And this might not be a Sunday, or the Sunday Anders promised months ago, but that’s just the thing, isn’t it. He kept his promise. It was pretty long-term at that, but still.

 _See, Ty?_ he’s gonna say tomorrow, smug as if he never ever doubted it, _Commitment, bro._

 

 


End file.
